The water dripping from the roof jokes and brings much mirth to the crowds inside. The closed door is an open window, as far as my eyes can see, painful and destructive to my soul. The blue sky, along with the greener fields in the distance, is a hopeless state, trapping me. I object to the sunset that they want me to join them in, sleepwalking into a nightmare ghetto.

Living in the moment, singing in the dark – they believe that they hold the key to my freedom. The cold key to my cell resides in their hands. They offer me flowing white robes, thinking that I dress myself in rags, barefoot and shivering with cold. They want to give me spectacles, thinking that my eyes have grown so narrow in the dark. They want to pull me out from the prison, creating a scene, polishing their own mirrors.

Living in the moment, smelling the flowers in the field. I am awake.

I see them in their rags, shivering on the bed as they dream of their highly-polished mirrors. I see them roused, fantasising about their nightmares, with their backs to the open door that waits generously for them. They get up from the bed, go to the door and slam it shut, determined to not see the real sky with its sun and rain and blue and grey. They turn the key, return to the bed, place the key under the pillow and fall back into their preferred fantasies where, surrounded by their highly-polished mirrors, they are helping me.